Looking for the Missing Piece But It Was Never
by fangirlgonewild
Summary: Spoilers through TVD 1-22 "Founder's Day" and GG 3-22 "Last Tango, Then Paris" Blair returns from abroad to find that Nate's been keeping some interesting company. Rating for language.


Blair holds a pearl choker up to her throat, examining its dull shine against her newly-tanned skin. A classic look for her return to the height of neo-classic society.

_It will do, I suppose_, she thinks, tossing the necklace on top of the dress she's already laid out.

Blair hadn't meant to get a new perspective on her life after returning from overseas. She'd despised that introspective shit when Carter pulled it the first time, coming back to whine about how America is so passé, so blasé, how can anyone stand to live a life of opulence when there are so much worthier causes, how can Americans call the Flatiron Building old when it cannot boast centuries of existence, blah, blah, blah.

And it wasn't what she was doing, not really. Blair is just…bored. Her summer with Serena had been pleasant enough, with ample distractions of both cultural and male significance. But now she is returning to her quote-on-quote real life, and she doesn't quite know what to make of that. She has plenty of scholarly aspirations, but she feared her social life was going to be sorely lacking.

Blair wipes under her eyes, catching unshed tears before they can make her mascara run. _No point in crying over nothing_, she tells herself. If Chuck wanted to drop off the face of the planet, then she certainly wasn't going to be the one chasing after him.

She takes a deep breath and steels herself, because a huge part of her wants to climb in bed and pull the covers up over her head. But she puts on the dress, ties the pearls around her neck, and twists her lips into that perfect little smile as she walks out the door.

"Look, it's not that I don't love the weird little aristocratic society vibe you've got going on; it's just that I have…things to do. In other places than here."

Damon waves a hand casually in the air, punctuating his point. From what he can gather, this poor little rich boy with _serious_ abandonment issues found his number by going through some rolodex compiled by another (more fun) rich boy who did some choice abandoning. Damon was intrigued. He came, he partied, he indulged (okay, overindulged), and now he was…bored.

It isn't that he was really looking to go back to that fucked-up little town that lay over the Confederate line, because he so isn't. He'd leaned in to find out what being good could get you, and came away with the taste of Katherine sticking to his lips. Who wanted to hang around for the inevitable moment with both Elena and Katherine would _both_ pick _not_ him?

Nate is a clingy little thing, and he's unwilling to lose his new bff. Or whatever he thinks Damon is. He prattles on about how some girl is coming back, and Damon gets that this might be a big deal for him, but really, why does Damon need to meet her?

"You don't know this girl," Nate says, in a tone that suggests he'd move mountains if she asked him.

There are a lot of things that Damon understands better than most, and infatuation ranks way up there.

So, he gives a noncommittal half-shrug, wandering over to the very well-stocked bar to pour himself some scotch.

"Whatever. I can hang around for one more night."

Nate whoops; Damon pours the alcohol down his throat and relishes the burning trail it leaves in its wake.

Blair times her arrival to coincide with Serena's, allowing the stir that runs through the room to focus on the as-yet-undefined status of the Upper East Side's golden couple.

"Has she talked to him yet?"

"Do you think she still wants him back?"

"Oh my God, do you think she knows about the Fourth of July Bare-B-Q?"

Blair rolls her eyes, knowing full well that the answers went _no_, _yes_, and _yes_ (with an added grimace for the tacky name, from both her and Serena). But she flies blissfully under the radar, settling at a table with a martini to watch the spectacle unfold. Society, unshockingly, hadn't altered that much. A few Columbia girls eyed her curiously from across the room; Blair cannot decide if they are sizing her up for a fight or gathering the courage to come speak to her.

Nate sidles into the seat next to her, reaching for her drink and taking a tiny sip. Blair had found this habit endearing when they were dating, now she thinks it an invasion of her personal space.

"Don't give that back to me; I don't want your germs."

"Come on, Blair, are you really Team Serena on this one? She broke up with me."

"I'm not on Team Anyone, but I do know what you did this summer, and that mouth is not going to be all over my drink," she pauses, then mutters to herself, "Could wind up with effing herpes just from sitting here."

"I think the gin is going to annihilate anything you could contract from me," Nate retorts, all too cheerfully.

Blair cocks her head to shoot him a look, but she slides a smile in at the end of her glare. She cannot stay irritated at him for long, which probably led to far more trouble than a little grudge would have, but she has a weakness for handsome, lost boys. She isn't going to bother with pointing out that his statement is factually untrue; it would ruin the moment. Besides, she's long suspected that Nate might be a touch…slow.

Nate gives her a nod and then slips away, artfully avoiding Serena as he weaves through the crowd.

Blair watches the crowd without really watching them, nursing her drink down to nothing and then playing with the glass, twirling it on its stem and watching the olives roll awkwardly around on their little swizzle stick. She lets the music and lights wash over her, giving her mind time to roam over various random musings.

Blair jumps when she realizes that _there's someone next to me_, and her shock evaporates into anger when she notices that _he's eating my fucking olives_.

"I was saving those," she says coolly.

"You let Nate Archibald take a sip of your drink," he points out, not sounding remotely remorseful.

Blair narrows her eyes, because really, what kind of response is that? And how long has he been watching her?

"I've known Nate for my entire life," she's trying to inject venom into her tone, but this conversation is a little ridiculous. Also his eyes are making it hard to concentrate; how does one get eyes that dark, tainted with such mesmerizing anger?

"Well, I've known him for my entire summer, and I don't think you should be putting your mouth where his has been, if you know what I mean."

She makes a face, because she so knew it. She had drunk the rest of that martini too.

"Well his _mouth_ wasn't on my _olives_."

His flash of a grin tells her that he caught the unintentional double entendre. Blair isn't interesting in giving this very annoying person she's never seen before the satisfaction of saying "dirty," so she gathers her purse and strides toward the door.

Damon can't just let her walk away, even if her marching off in her stilettos is the most amusing thing he's seen all night (she actually physically shoves a couple standing between her and the elevator).

He noticed her when she walked in the room. She's a beautiful girl in a room full of beautiful girls, but people here took notice of her presence, even as she tried to downplay it. He wonders if she's ever aware that they subtly stood back to let her pick her little table and drink her little drink.

Respect. She holds it in spades from this crowd. Damon wonders why.

Nate's intrusion irked her, Damon could tell by the little downturn in her mouth, the slight narrowing of her eyes. He eavesdropped to hear her casual malevolence, but also to discover the sound of her voice. And to learn her name.

Blair. Queen of this shadowy aboveworld.

She's fascinating.

So he follows her, stalking his prey like the hunter that he is. Blair is a quick little thing, even on those heels—but he's faster, of course.

Yet somehow Damon's left standing in the lobby, reading the elevator dials with mild puzzlement. He rolls back on his heels, considering the alternative exits that years of experience must have taught her. Which one would she choose, and how far could she have run from him?

He hopes fire escape, personally. She'd be flushed and out-of-breath by the time she reached him at the bottom, and he can almost picture her cheeks stained with the rosy pink-red of her blood. Damon bites his tongue lightly; food isn't hard to come by here, he hasn't been thirsty at all (and bonus, hardly any cleanup required!), but she's tempting, and a taste for the road couldn't hurt.

Damon nearly bares his fangs when a hand taps him on the shoulder. As it is, he spins around with almost-expressed pent-up aggression in his veins. Blair doesn't give an inch, cocking her head to eye him critically.

"Well, well," he says, "Rapunzel made it down from the tower after all."

"I want you to stop bothering me."

"You can't always get what you want, Blair."

"Some people can, Damon."

He draws back, a touch surprised. Any number of people in the penthouse know his name, but he didn't think she'd had the time to stop and ask. Blair plays her trump card coolly, a ghost of a smirk barely crossing her lips.

Damon moves into her personal space, reaching in to (gently) jerk her bag from her arm. To his amusement, she stands her ground, clutching her bag until her slides his hand over her elbow. He moves a _teensy_ bit faster, throwing her off-balance so she relinquishes her hold on her purse and teeters back a step.

He catches her, because a long time ago he used to be a gentleman of sorts. He rights her flush against his chest, because that was _quite_ a long time ago.

"It seems, milady, that you could use a drink."

Blair glances at her purse, now hanging off the arm around her waist.

"Am I paying?" she inquires, arching an eyebrow.

"We could go Dutch," he answers, letting go of her and removing her phone from her bag in one fluid motion, "it's not as if this is a date."

Something flashes in her eyes, a kind of buried almost-pain that tells him the little china doll standing before him has been broken before. But she doesn't say anything; and he doesn't ask any questions. She's not anything to him; he's not wondering about her story, or wishing that she'd smile again.

Damon shifts his gaze, frowning at her cell: it's password-protected. Blair rolls her eyes at him.

Eye-rolling; Damon loves this modern, unsubtle gesture of exasperation. Elena never ceased to amuse him with her constant glances heavenward. It's so involuntary, as natural to these girls as breathing, which made it so much better than flowers and fans.

"I'll figure it out," he swears, handing the device back to her, "how you Rumpelstiltskinned me."

"Enough with the fairy tale bullshit," she snaps, "And it's not a riddle, I've known who you are for years—you and your brother belong to one of the oldest families on the East Coast."

She ignores the perfectly good bar to their right and walks out the door, leaving him to follow her like a puppy. Not like he hasn't done that before. _Women,_ he thinks, _so fucking powerful it's insane_.

"I'm guessing Nate called you from an entry in Chuck's little black book?" Blair doesn't wait for his nod, "Who do you think put down your name?"

"And here I thought New Yorkers never bothered to look beyond their own skyline," he says, falling into step beside her.

"We do when it suits our greater agenda," she says, tossing him a conspiratorial smile.

And just like that, they both find that the future looks a good bit less boring.


End file.
